


Table for Two

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Humor, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:56:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m here,” he imagined himself saying, “Because I live with a consulting detective - yeah, I know – and he’s using me to act as a love interest for a man he’s spying on for a case. Apparently I am the type shady gay crooks go for”</p><p>Fluffy humour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Table for Two

John Watson would have happily wagered that no other locum doctor in the UK’s working day ended quite in the same way his did. In fact, with good odds he would have happily accepted a bet that no other doctor of any description anywhere in the world’s day ended like his did.

Having made his way home through the rush hour bustle on the underground to Baker Street, John would employ what had come to be standard practice for entering the flat. This comprised firstly of keeping an ear out as he made his way up the stairs for any sounds that might tip him off to what was going on inside 221B. These could include but were not restricted to gunfire, explosions, laughter, shouting and uneasy, unnatural silence. He would also make sure to sniff the air as he grew closer, sometimes a warning for there being in the flat anything in a particularly advanced state of decay, for confirmation that Sherlock had bought milk last week then neglected to put it in the fridge or for a chemical experiment having either gone spectacularly well or spectacularly badly.

The second stage of the routine involved actually opening the door – he would do this carefully and quietly for a number of reasons – the gunfire again being one but also John had grown to realise that when in one of his stormier moods Sherlock could land upon just about anything as a source of criticism. Today John slipped inside to find Sherlock sat in one armchair staring expectantly at the doorway. It was new on John and therefore set him even more on his guard.

“Yes?” he said.

The detective’s eyes had begun to rove over John in a rather curious fashion – appraising, he supposed you might call it. More alarmingly still, the man finished by giving a firm, approving nod.

“Yes, you’ll have to do it.”

“”My day was fine, thanks,” John muttered, placing his coat on a hook by the door, “Not too much paper work and mostly people with sniffles.”

“You’re definitely his type,” the detective’s deep, speculative voice sounded out across the room as John moved into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. He turned back quickly to frown at Sherlock.

“What- “his type”,” John tried an amused smile as he willed himself to be wrong, “Sherlock, you make it sound like you’re setting me up. With a man.”

Sherlock calmly returned the doctor’s increasingly bug eyed stare. John’s eyebrows contracted further.

“Sherlock why on earth are you setting me up with a man?”

“I’m not, you’re just jumping to rather puzzling conclusions,” the detective said with the barest hint of amusement under his unimpressed tone, “It’s for-”

“A case? This is for a case?” John insisted, his disbelief fading against his will, “You’re using me as... a honey trap or something?”

Sherlock gave an easy shrug.

“You’re his type. If you turn up, we’ll have him.”

“I’m his type?” John repeated, lips quirking into an unconvinced smile, “He likes limping ex-army doctors who are putting on the pounds?”

“Psychosomatic. Only four pounds so far. And yes. I would go myself but I'll elsewhere. John, do this-“

The doctor gave a hopeful look. “And you’ll what?” he asked, eyes straying to consider the petri-dish of fingernails that had appeared on the coffee table that was his current battleground in his perpetual “now you’re going too far” fight with the detective.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said with apparent puzzlement, “I was saying "do this". And you will: I can tell by looking at you. Would you like me to give you five reasons why you will?”

The doctor gave the man a glare which said, quite clearly, that he didn't. Dropping heavily into the other armchair, John was forced to listen to them anyway.

*

It was quite simple, Sherlock had said and that had been enough to confirm for John that the plan was madness. Sherlock having sketched it out roughly then bustled him back out of the door of 221B had just fleshed the madness out further.

At a little before 6pm John was roaming Oxford Street. He gazed rather helplessly into the various shops before settling upon one with suits in the window that were of a decent quality but whose prices didn’t make his eyes water.

As an assistant helped him pick out a plain, simply cut black suit with a white shirt and blue tie, John thought several times about explaining his purchase. “I’m here,” he imagined himself saying, “Because I live with a consulting detective - yeah, I know – and he’s using me to act as a love interest for a man he’s spying on for a case. Apparently I am the type shady gay crooks go for”. He chose instead to just give the sales clerk a debit card (Sherlock’s) and paid with a quiet sigh.

Bag in hand a text had sounded on his phone.

_Get a haircut. Hair’s too long.SH_

John felt his irritation peak considerably only for it to be sent yet higher by the message that followed hot on the heels of the first.

_Also have a shave. You were lax this morning (stubble under right side of jaw). SH_

The doctor uneasily thumbed the patch to find slightly thicker bristles there. Opening his mouth to give a strong, heartfelt curse he wound up closing it once more, shoulders sagging.

There weren't words enough.

*

Having managed to locate a barber that was still open for the trim and shave, a public toilet that wasn’t too grotty to change into his suit in and a pub for a quick, stiff drink to try and ready himself for a night spent making eyes at some overweight drug baron, John consulted his phone for the address of the restaurant once again and took a cab to the spot as the hour reached 8pm.

Before stepping inside he gave the restaurant – quite minimalistic, modern and gleaming - a sad glance. At any other time he would have been sure to enjoy the opportunity to eat somewhere of this standard but faced with a forced gay date he found his enthusiasm lacking.

As he lingered by the entrance he received another text. Fishing the phone from the large boutique bag his normal clothes were currently stored in he took in the message.

_You there? SH_

_Yes_ he replied, taking a leaf from the detective’s book. As he made to send the message he gave into temptation and added: _why aren’t you here as well? How can I report back to you like this, you don’t do calls. And what if the bloke gets amorous? Sherlock, I hate it when you don’t explain the pissing plan._ The doctor sent the message before the tirade could spiral further.

_Because. You’re five minutes late John. SH_

John dropped the phone back into the bag and sent a weary look skyward before striding into the restaurant. He did his best to look happy, relaxed even, when he told the maitre d’ that he had a reservation for the name of “Jones” but saw how the man gave him a slightly concerned look all the same as he led him across the restaurant to a seat by one large, plate glass window.

John allowed himself to be sat in silence, waiting for the maitre d’ to leave before he let his absolute confusion set in fully. Sherlock sat and smirked at him from across the table. Dressed in a rich blue shirt the man looked even more polished than usual.

Having found his voice John was able to croak out a few words.

“I think I might kill you.”

The detective smiled still further, the glow of the table’s candle warming his ivory complexion a little, not to mention pronouncing even further the frankly impish look in his eyes.

“Well, in fairness,” the man said as he poured John a glass of wine from a freshly uncorked bottle between them, “I never thought you’d buy it.”

John took the drink and downed some. In spite of his haste he couldn’t help but note the dry tang of what was clearly a drink from the bottom of the wine list.

“You are absolutely beyond bearing,” John said, shaking his head at the man. Sherlock gestured for the doctor to straighten his tie then continued his self satisfied smiling, “You said you would be "elsewhere"."

"Agreed. I'm in this seat, not yours."

"Is there even a case?”

“If there was would I be spending time in an upscale restaurant romancing you?” Sherlock said, raising a brow.

The words, while spoken in the man’s usual smooth, deep tone might as well have ended with the detective shouting directly into John’s ear, they caught him so off-guard. He felt his face heat up rather and wasn’t entirely sure it was the work of the alcohol.

“So,” he said quietly, studying the few, lazy bubbles that drifted in the wine, “The part about me being the man’s type. Is that true?”

Sherlock ‘s smile grew as wide as the Cheshire cat’s. He sipped some of his own wine before shrugging almost lazily.

“You know my methods doctor,” he said, “Apply them.”


End file.
